


Broken Mirror of Innocence on Each Forgotten Face

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Death, Duty, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Healing, Immortals War, Loss, Off-Sceen Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 13:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12434208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Not all wounds sustained during the Immortals War will heal.





	Broken Mirror of Innocence on Each Forgotten Face

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on lines in First Test about some of Tortall's pages and squires being killed in the Immortals War. Please be warned that this story contains the off-screen death of an original character.

Broken Mirror of Innocence on Each Forgotten Face

Conceived, born, and bred in the Royal Palace, Roald suspected that he had become accustomed to the chiming of bells every hour while he was still kicking in his mother’s womb. Unlike some of the other pages who had their dreams interrupted by the ringing bells, Roald never did, so it was a shock when he surged upright in bed on a balmy June night, startled out of sleep by the clangor of alarum bells. 

“Begging your pardon, but what’s happening, Your Highness?” Bennet, Roald’s manservant, who slept on a cot behind a screen, sounded just as alarmed to be ripped from slumber while the sky was still a jet black lit only by the faint glimmer of stars. 

“I’m going to find out.” Roald rolled out of bed and bolted out of his door to join the panicked pandemonium in the hallway as pages still in their nightclothes asked one another what was transpiring and became only more frantic as they discovered nobody seemed to know anything. 

“Blair.” Roald spotted one of his friends, Blairian of Blue Harbor, who was in the year above him and upon whom Roald relied upon for guidance and calm in chaos or in crisis. “What’s the alarm?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know.” Blair shook his head and Roald’s stomach knotted because if Blair, whom Roald had wails thought of as scared of nothing, was afraid than Roald should probably be terrified. 

“Nobody knows.” Gilmyn of Naxen, who was in Blair’s year and had been the one to introduce Roald to Blair in the first place as Blair was Gilmyn’s best friend, sidled up next to them, his rust-colored eyes hardened with frustration at his rare state of ignorance. “I hate not knowing what’s happening. Nothing that is going on could possibly be worse than not knowing.” 

“You’re filled with more manure than stables that haven’t been mucked in a month, Gil.” Blair elbowed Gilmyn in the ribcage. “Ignorance is bliss.” 

Gilmyn, massaging his ribs, opened his mouth to retort but was cut off before he could begin by Lord Wyldon’s bark echoing along the corridor, “If you’re always this late responding to alarum bells, you will be corpses as soon as the attack begins. You’ve five minutes to change and assemble in the mess hall.” 

Roald disappeared into his room as the other pages dispersed into theirs. He saw that Bennet, anticipating his needs as a good manservant should had already laid out a clean page’s uniform. Pulling the shirt over his head, he called out to Bennet, “I still don’t know exactly what’s happening, but Lord Wyldon wants all pages to assemble in the mess hall in five minutes. You should go back to the royal quarters if you can. You should find out more about what’s happening there.” 

“Yes, Your Highness. Stay safe.” Bennet bowed and hurried out of the room. 

Once he had finished changing, Roald stepped out into the stream of pages rushing toward the mess hall. When he reached the mess hall, he squeezed into a spot on the bench between Gilmyn and Blair that his friends had been saving for him. 

“As I was coming here, I saw as I looked through a window squads of the Own and the Queen’s Riders racing into the Royal Forest,” Gilmyn’s tone was a peculiar mix of grim and eager. “Something serious must be happening.” 

Before any of them could speculate any further on what was occurring, Lord Wyldon, who was standing as though carved from marble at the front of the hall, pounded on his lectern. Silence fell like a veil, and Wyldon shouted loud enough to be heard in Scanra, “There have been coordinated attacks by Immortals in villages throughout the Royal Forest. Squadrons of the King’s Own and the Queen’s Riders have been dispatched to deal with these threats. Squires, you will ride into battle with your knights. Third and fourth year pages, you will be assigned to a squad in the Own or with the Riders to help fend off the attacks however you can. You will obey all orders given to you by any member of your squad, or I will hear why if you live to tell the tale. First and second years, you will report to the stables, where you can saddle horses for departing warriors. Any questions?” 

Lord Wyldon’s scowl discouraged any questions, but Nealan of Queenscove, who had only arrived in April and perhaps hadn’t yet learned when to keep his mouth shut, was undaunted. Lifting a palm, he pointed out, “My lord, some of us first and second year pages have the Gift. Surely we would be of more use helping the healers than the hostlers?”

It was a mark of how serious the situation was that Lord Wyldon actually considered something Nealan said. After a moment in which Roald held his breath—because if he, as a second year, wasn’t permitted to fight, he longed to at least be able to heal those injured in battle—Wyldon declared tersely, “Very well, Page Nealan. Those first and second years with the Gift are to report to the palace healers to help in any way the healers require—even if that means scrubbing chamber pots. The rest of the first and second years will go to the stables. Now move it. There’s not another minute to waste.” 

A scrape of benches resounded to the rafters as the pages and handful of squires present lurched to their feet. Under the cover of the noise, Roald muttered mutinously to Gilmyn and Blair, “It’s not fair that I’m a few months too young to go into battle with you two.” 

“You’ll be healing the wounded.” Gilmyn clapped Roald on the shoulders. “That’s more important than slicing monsters with your sword.” 

“Don’t worry,” added Blair, ruffling Roald’s hair as they left the mess hall and parted for their separate duties. “When we return, we’ll tell you all about our adventures. You won’t miss a thing.” 

Roald would have waved at Blair and Gilmyn if the tide of pages hadn’t carried him away. As he raced to report to the palace healers, he found himself next to Nealan of Queenscove. Remembering just in time that Nealan insisted on being referred to by his nickname, Roald, determined to give credit where it was due, commented, “Neal, you were brilliant back there, getting Lord Wyldon to agree to have us Gifted first and second years help the healers instead of the hostlers.” 

“It brings warm feelings to my cold heart to have my brilliance acknowledged by a mind as bright as yours.” Neal gave a melodramatic sigh, and, not for the first time, Roald wondered if he might have some troubadour blood in his veins. “Normally my astuteness brings me nothing but scorn, for it is wisely said that a genius is never appreciated in his own time.” 

Roald was spared the necessity of coming up with a response to this dramatic pronouncement when they reached the palace healers and were instantly delegated to the patients whose injuries required the least healing knowledge and experience. Roald was assigned to a soldier who looked barely old enough to shave and who bit on his lip instead of the cloth between his teeth when Roald sealed the gaping wounds on his thighs. The blood was barely washed from his hands before the next young man was laid before him. Eyes as blue as his own stared at him and then flickered into a faint as Roald’s magic—raw and lacking finesse—yanked the broken bones in his arms back into place.

The world was reduced to nothing but wounds. There was no time to recover between healings—only a second to spare for dipping hands in water to clean them—and more than just magical energy was sapped by the moans, the howls, the pleas for death, and the prayers to any listening god that filled the healers’ wing. Roald felt as if his whole life was an endless procession of blood and broken bone, as if he had always been healing people and he would always be healing them, because the pile of the injured never seemed to diminish no matter how hard he and the other healers worked…

“Prince Roald.” A shake on his shoulder interrupted Roald’s rhythm as he was washing his hands between patients. Too weary to recognize voices, Roald glanced over his shoulder to see Master Lindhall Reed, who had apparently volunteered with the healers as well, studying him with a blend of sternness and compassion. “You’ve been healing for four hours straight. It’s time you ate before you faint.” 

“I want to help, Master.” Roald’s voice cracked even though he wanted to sound as firm as his father, because he had to stay here and patch up the soldiers who had been hurt serving the Crown. If he couldn’t prevent them from breaking, he could at least put them back together again. That was the least he owed those who had been injured in the line of duty. 

“You won’t be able to help anyone if you drive yourself to the point of collapse.” Master Reed tutted. 

When Roald opened his mouth to protest again, he found a grape pushed inside it. The sudden sweetness of the grape in such sharp contrast to the sadness of the injuries all around him made Roald sputter. 

“Let me perform one more healing, Master.” Roald resisted the temptation to spit the fruit all over Master Reed and swallowed the mouthful instead. “Then I’ll eat.” 

“I’ve too much experience dealing with the headstrong heir in Carthak to fall for your tricks, Your Highness.” Master Reed shoved another grape between Roald’s lips. “Now, you have two choices. You can either force me to continue feeding you like a baby, or you can go into the corridor and eat like the big boy you’re supposed to be. Which will it be?” 

“I’m going, Master.” Roald held up his hands in surrender and retreated to the corridor, where he saw a haggard Neal sitting against the wall with an overflowing bowl of fruit perched on his trembling knees. 

“Master Lindhall make you come out here to eat, too?” Neal’s words were almost indecipherable around the pear he was munching on. 

“Yes, Neal.” Roald sank beside Neal, leaning against a tapestry that depicted a handsome knight forever kneeling to beg a beautiful lady’s favor as a tournament waged behind them, and snatched a fruit at random from the bowl. Biting into a peach, he frowned. “Where are the others?” 

“Only you and I remain.” Neal’s lips thinned. “Everyone else apparently returned to their beds to get rest an hour ago.” 

“Oh.” Roald couldn’t fathom this. The last place he wanted to be was in bed because he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep when there were people he could be healing. His duty was nowhere near done for the night—or early morning, as he suspected that was what this long night had stretched into, though he hadn’t been able to hear the bells when he was so immersed in his healing that everything else had faded away. Soft as a whisper, he said, trying to gain a better understanding of the self-sacrificing cynic next to him, “Neal, you never told me why you decided to leave the university to train here.” 

“Isn’t it obvious, Your Highness?” Neal arched an eyebrow. “I have to be a knight.” 

“You don’t seem like you want to be a knight.” Roald’s forehead furrowed. 

“You’re the Crown Prince.” Neal’s green eyes were keen as they lanced into Roald. “I should think you’d know better than most that what we want is nothing compared to our duty.” 

“You could do your duty to the realm as a healer, not a warrior.” Roald was nearing the pit of his peach but felt he had not even scratched Neal’s surface. “Unlike me, you have a choice.” 

“I’m a Queenscove.” For once, Neal elected for simplicity rather than sophistication in his explanation. “A member from our house has served the realm a knight for centuries. My older brothers are dead, so that leaves only me to fulfill that duty. That means I have the same choice as you do, which is to say none at all, but, rest assured, I’m quite resigned to my fate.”

“I thought your father might have forced you to train as a knight.” Roald watched Neal’s face for any hint that his suspicion that Neal had been ordered by Duke Baird to become a knight, because he knew that, the more powerful parents you had, the less free you were. Roald himself often felt more a pawn than a prince. 

“No, quite the opposite.” Neal’s lips quirked. “He tried to force me to stay at the university, but I dug in my heels too much, and here I am, being tortured daily by Lord Wyldon. I don’t know whether that is a punishment or a reward for my persistence.” 

“I could never defy my father.” Roald stared at Neal, torn between admiration and horror since it never really entered his mind to rebel against either of his parents. Good sons, he had been taught from the time he was a toddler, honored their mother and father with their obedience. When your mother or father told you to do something (or not to do it), it naturally and inevitably followed that you complied with the command just as, when a meal was set before you, you ate and did not paint the walls with it. 

“Well, my father can’t behead anyone—no matter how many times he threatens to chop my head off when I get creative in my arguments—and yours can, so there you go.” Neal smirked.

Roald, poised somewhere between amusement and offense on his father’s behalf, could not think of an answer before heels rounded the corner. As if speaking of him caused him to materialize, Papa strode around the corner, maroon robes swirling in his wake. Before Roald and Neal could bow, Papa wrapped his arms around Roald, who felt embarrassed at this unexpected display of affection before an audience, especially one as acerbic as Neal. 

“You’re here, son.” Papa was clutching Roald so tightly against his chest that Roald worried either one of their ribs might break. 

“Where else would I be, Papa?” Roald managed to extricate himself enough from his father’s embrace to breathe and noticed out of the corner of his eye that Neal had slipped away to give them some privacy. 

“You weren’t in your room.” Papa’s hands curled around Roald’s head. “You weren’t in the stables where some said the younger pages were. I was looking all over for you.” 

Not sure if he was being reprimanded for doing his duty, Roald muttered, “I was healing people, Papa. Why were you looking for me?” 

“There was a hurrock attack on the nursery.” Papa squeezed the nape of Roald’s neck. “Liam, Jasson, and Lianne are all safe, but I had to know that you’re all right too.” 

“I’m fine.” Roald pulled away from his father and prepared to return to healing once more. “There are a lot of people who can’t say the same, though, so with your leave I’d like to go back to helping them.” 

Before Papa could grant or refuse permission, Gilmyn, paler than putrid milk, burst into the hallway. His eyes were wild, his cheeks were wet, and his breeches were stained with blood Roald hoped was an enemy’s and not his. 

“Gil!” Papa exclaimed, grasping Gilmyn’s shoulder. Gilmyn was one of Papa’s godssons, which meant that Papa was always showering him with gifts and attention. “Are you hurt?” 

“No, sire. I’m fine.” Gilmyn’s face crumbled. “Blair is not, though. He’s dead, and I had to watch him die. He was my best friend, and I couldn’t save him.” 

Gilmyn was tearing at his hair in a way that made it so easy for Roald to believe that he was raving mad, and he had to be insane because it was impossible that Blair—who had eaten supper with him only hours ago and had been in the pink of health—could be lifeless. Closing his eyes, all Roald could see were memories of Blair, moments frozen in time that he wasn’t ready to accept were all that he had left of his friend. Blair laughing as they dunked one another under water in the baths after a hard morning’s training. Blair rolling his eyes when Master Oakbridge’s back was turned. Blair giving him tips on how to hold his staff in the proper position for drills. Blair swirling his least favorite vegetable, broccoli, around his plate instead of eating it. Blair coaxing him through mathematics problems that had Roald lost in some numerical wastelands…

Blair’s voice rose like a cry inside Roald’s head: “When we return, we’ll tell you all about our adventures.” Blair had been so casually confident that he would come back, and Roald had taken it for granted that he would see his friend again. If he had known that would be the last time he saw his friend, he would have held Blair and never let go. Sweat dripped down Roald’s spine, but he shivered, wondering how June could be so cold. 

“I’m sorry.” Papa hugged Roald and Gilmyn so close that their heads risked banging together. “I know exactly how you feel.” 

“Do you really, Papa?” Roald opened his eyes to scrutinize his father, because polite platitudes provided hollow comfort when facing the harsh realities of the grave that would swallow them all. “Or are you just saying that because you can’t say anything else?” 

“Of course I know how it feels. Just like you, I lost a close friend when I was a page.” Papa patted Roald’s cheek, damp from tears he hadn’t noticed falling. “It seems like every generation gets its trial by fire that leaves the survivors permanently burned and scarred. For my generation, it was the Sweating Sickness that claimed my friend Francis. I still miss him sometimes, but I’ve managed to move on, and you both will too.” 

“I don’t want to move on if it means forgetting Blair.” Roald shook his head. 

“Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting the one you loved and lost.” Papa kissed Roald’s forehead. “It just means you honor their memory by continuing to live your life despite your grief. This terrible pain you’re feeling will become bearable with time. I promise you that your broken hearts will mend though you will be left with scar tissue. You will get through this together.” 

Roald reached out a hand to Gilmyn, the only person he was sure shared his grief, and Gilmyn clung to Roald’s fingers the way a drowning man would hold onto driftwood. Part of Roald and Gilmyn had died with Blair, but the rest gripped life all the tighter because they had finally begun to understand how fragile life was and how quickly it could be snatched away from them. In Gilmyn’s face, Roald could see a reflection of his own broken innocence and that was strangely soothing as it assured him that he wasn’t alone in his mourning.


End file.
